


A Certain Perception

by lucrezias-sparklyhairnet (shedseventears)



Category: The Borgias
Genre: F/F, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shedseventears/pseuds/lucrezias-sparklyhairnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlotte d'Albret sells her soul to the Borgia siblings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Perception

**Author's Note:**

> Cesare Borgia spent about four months with his wife, Charlotte d'Albret. He knocked her up, left, and wrote her some nice letters. She politely mourned him and raised their daughter in widowhood. Lucrezia Borgia probably did not meet Charlotte or Louisa Borgia (also known as Louise Borgia). In short, I made this up as a "what if?" situation. Also, any typos/mistakes are my fault, so on and so forth.

Poor lamb.

She has always been exceptionally perceptive; that is what will save her, more than the jewels and coins and silks. It is her manners, her graces, that color her cheeks and brings life to her eyes. Long after she is withered and cold inside, as her mother must have been, she will appear as alive as any of them.

That is what it means to be a lady.

”The Duc de Valentinois, my lady,” her maid of honor says, smoothing a stray strand of hair. She smiles, her fear onionskin-transparent. Charlotte resists rolling her eyes. “And you are to be his duchess.”

I am already a king’s sister, Charlotte wants to say, peering in her mirror. She hears that the duc’s sister likes her mirrors. And Lucrezia Borgia would enjoy her looking glasses, the milk-bleached complexion they reflect. “It is the greatest honor.”

She’s not sure that she can care enough to be humiliated, marrying this reject of the Church. The pope’s bastard, more than anything else. But Cesare Borgia has carved a path with his bloodstained hands, and as a woman with a taste for gladiators, Charlotte can appreciate that.

She walks the aisle with a woman’s poise and without a girl’s tears.

Her bridegroom is as lovely to look at as promised, though she supposes that he would be. For God’s sake, think of the bastards her ladies whisper over. A bastard’s bastards. Cesare Borgia turns one black eye on her stifled giggle; half of his mouth curves, and he twistes his neck to look back at their audience.

Charlotte follows his gaze, is somehow unsurprised to find Lucrezia Borgia. She’s as lovely as they all say, her clouds of hair spun with jewels. And at her side sits a man, a bit younger, a bit slighter; a man who turns the duc’s smirk to a frown. With a short, direct glance at his sister, he returns to his vows.

He’s too lost in his thoughts to notice Lucrezia nudge Alfonso d’Aragona, whispering in his ear as she meets Charlotte’s eyes. She smiles, beatific as the vatican madonna she very nearly is.

I know who you are they—Charlotte and Lucrezia, and vice versa—both seem to say. When the vows are exchanged and Lucrezia Borgia leads the polite applause, that saintly expression drops, just a second.

And for that second, she looks at her brother, leading his bride down the aisle. And she raises an eyebrow, mocking him.

~

”So my brother has a beautiful wife,” Lucrezia Borgia says, pressing a kiss to each of Charlotte’s cheeks. “Thank God.”

Marriage is a part of the Borgia game—Charlotte has listened to her rumors—and so Cesare nods. “Worse fates might await us. Speaking of, wherever is your husband?”

Lucrezia frowns. Charlotte has heard of the duc’s enmity towards his brother-in-law, the tensions that crack Lucrezia’s loyalties. Just weeks ago, she birthed her first son for the Bisceglie—her second overall, though that first child is well hidden. The point of it all, of course, is for her to sway Alfonso in favor of her brother—not the other way around.

”You know where he is.” Lucrezia tilts her head in the direction of her husband, contentedly eating his dinner. “You always do.”

Cesare, who barely seems to notice Charlotte dutifully clutching his arm, smiles. “Your boy of clay.”

The crease across Lucrezia’s forehead disappears, and her lips twitch. “To mould as I would like.” The pair lapse into silence a moment—they do that a lot, Charlotte notices—broken only when Lucrezia turns to her new sister-in-law. “And now you have a girl of your own. But if you would let me take her…?”

So she is passed into the soft, glittering arms of the Duchess of Bisceglie. She smells of expensive perfumes and apples, and an oddly familiar something that Charlotte can only guess belongs to her brother.

They seem to share a lot of things, these Borgias.

As Lucrezia leads her across the ballroom floor, Charlotte looks back at her husband. He is tall, and he is finely made. But there’s less humor to be found in him than Charlotte would have guessed. Rather than joke to herself over mistresses and broken holy vows, she thinks of other things. Like the brother he killed. The father he hates.

There are dark circles beneath Valentino’s eyes, and he feels like a man breathing his last.

”I’ve always wanted a sister.” It’s what one is supposed to say, yet Lucrezia Borgia executes the line with genuine warmth, her fingers twined in Charlotte’s curls. They’re nearly the same age, though the Duchess of Bisceglie has lived more than most women. For all of her good breeding, terrible questions linger upon Charlotte’s tongue.

Is it true that you bore a bastard to that poor man? Is is true your brother killed him?

And then, there’s the inevitable:

Is it true that Cesare knows you as he would me?

Lucrezia Borgia does not have the look of a sinner. Not one so great. But then, Cesare does.

”You’re Lady Borgia now,” Lucrezia remarks, toying with Charlotte’s pearls. “And a pretty one you’ll make, too. I’m so often… away—now.” Her smile turns wan, and she glances down at the marble floor. Their reflections are mirrored perfectly. “I should be in Rome more. But the baby—and Alfonso—it’s all very much to think about.”

Brightening, she curls an arm around Charlotte’s waist, just as her brother did. And Charlotte can’t see the Lucrezia Borgia they whisper about. Not in this moment. This girl is just that—a girl, plump and rosy.

”You’ll have to look after Papa, of course.” Lucrezia presses her fingers to her lips, wet with wine as they are. “When you see him. And Cesare.”

”Of course,” Charlotte says, finally getting a word in. “I am his wife, am I not?”

Lucrezia freezes, turns her head toward Charlotte’s. She’s caught off guard, turned off course; and that same dark shadow flashes through her eyes, the one that stole her smile after the ceremony.

”Oh,” she laughs, presses her forehead against Charlotte’s. “But you are.” She touches Charlotte’s cheek, hand cool. “It is good. Being someone’s wife.”

”My ladies.”

They start at the sound of Cesare’s voice, spinning in mirrored surprise. But while Charlotte remains silent—in her way—Lucrezia bursts out laughing, leaning into Cesare’s chest. It must be the wine.

Cesare grants Charlotte a nod—he’s more distant than cold—before looking down at Lucrezia. “Sister—you know they’ve been asking you to lead a dance.”

”They always do.” Around her brother, Lucrezia is already a different person. A Borgia sort of woman. She shrugs, hair loosening from its nets.

”We always dance at your weddings,” Cesare grins, easily grasping his sister’s hand. “Would you be so cruel as to forego mine?”

Lucrezia presses her lips together, reaches up to brush Cesare’s hair out of his eyes. She makes him look younger. Softer, if that’s possible. “You said you’d never have a wedding.”

”If you knew me at all,” he retorts. “You also would have guessed otherwise.”

So they lead a new dance—slower than the one he led with Charlotte, a dance meant more for ending a reception than beginning one. Their fingers entwine in an old game, and Lucrezia’s eyes glisten with what could be tears for her loss of importance, could be wine-made emotion. Or, they might not be tears at all. They might be a trick of light, just like her.

But when they come together, bodies inches apart, Charlotte does not mistake Cesare’s whisper for anything other than what it is.

~

The pope loves her, as he loves all beautiful women.

Charlotte supposes that he especially loves her silence, for silent people rarely gossip. And she sees no point in it, now that she’s an honorary Borgia.

No matter what her last name or title, however, it’s clear that trust is something earned by blood and nothing else in this vatican. When Cesare talks to her, it’s usually of polite nothings or affections he doesn’t mean. When he doesn’t speak, he’s usually seeing her for something else entirely. She’ll admit: she enjoys that part of marriage.

But for the most, Charlotte feels like a doll; so when Lucrezia visits to celebrate an easily-achieved pregancy, she is happy to have someone to talk to.

”Wait a few days,” Cesare says the night before Lucrezia’s arrival. “Before seeing my sister.”

Charlotte, sitting before her great mirror with hairbrush in hand, pauses mid-stroke. “Why? She isn’t here long.” And, because she has been trained to do so, she says, “I love her like my own flesh and blood. She is—”

”I doubt that, and not exactly.” Cesare laughs; and it’s his laugh she hates, though Lucrezia writes of missing it so. It’s an arrogant laugh, cruel and bloody as the fangs he wears in her nightmares. Lucrezia bares her own set; but that’s easier to forget. “She’ll be tired, and she’s always had a weak constitution.” He holds a knife in hand, as he almost always does, and spins it like a child’s top. “You should entertain her husband.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes, thinking him joking. “By myself?”

”Why not?” Cesare eyes his reflection over hers. She wonders who their child will resemble more. And oddly enough, for all of his gloominess—when she manages to catch him acting as he does around others, laughing and joking and making witty remarks—plotting and fighting and shouting at his father—when she gets word of him capturing this city or that one, she wants the child to resemble him.

”D’Aragona is more honorable than I am, from what I hear.” He rolls his eyes. “He’s handsome, and kind.”

 

”Would you have Lucrezia and I switch husbands?” Charlotte jokes, resuming brushing her hair.

 

Cesare stalks across the room, slides his hands down her shoulders to unlace the nightgown. “Perhaps I would.”

 

~

 

Lucrezia is a different woman now.

 

She’s harried, stretched thin as she rushes to smooth the slightest argument between her husband and her brother. And they do argue; over food, over money, over where Bisceglie’s loyalties will lie. They aren’t the only ones, either.

At night, Charlotte hears muffled shouting between Cesare and Lucrezia. She’ll hear her sister-in-law burst into tears, imagine Cesare putting his arms around her. Alfonso d’Aragona must wonder, too. What do the Borgias do at the ends of their late nights?

 

From her window, Charlotte watches them walk the gardens, arm and arm. They’re at their most beautiful together, dark and light, day and night.

 

One day, she watches as Lucrezia wraps her arms around Cesare’s neck. She watches as she doesn’t cry, but simply lays a kiss upon his throat. It’s brief, and chaste. But it is not the kiss a sister gives her brother.

 

Often, Charlotte and Lucrezia speak of inane things like babies and households. But on that day, when they’re curled up in front of the fire, their husbands discussing something of political import, Lucrezia says, “You’re lucky, Charlotte. To be without a choice.”

 

Charlotte, whose belly swells with a Borgia child, looks up. “What could you possibly mean?”

 

If Lucrezia catches her frostiness, she ignores it. “If I betray my husband, I betray my vows, and my child. If I betray my family—I betray my family. I betray Cesare.” Her eyes are dead, her voice flat. “I’ve broken promises a thousand times, but never to him.”

 

”What betrayal could there be, my lady?” Charlotte returns to her sewing. If there was some plot to be concerned with, Lucrezia would never mention it to her.

”Just giving your loyalty to one or the other—putting him above my family—that’s betrayal to Cesare.” She licks her lips; and Charlotte imagines those lips upon her husband’s. “He did kill our brother, though I’m sure you realized shortly after your wedding how capable he is. He killed Juan because of many things, and betrayal is one of them.”

 

Charlotte starts, pricks her finger. “You couldn’t possibly fear for your life, my—dear.” “My lady” doesn’t seem appropriate.

 

Lucrezia smiles, shakes her head. “No, of course not. But I do fear losing him.” She slides an eye Charlotte’s way, and for once looks just like Cesare. “Do not begrudge me that.”

Charlotte sets her needlework aside and kisses Lucrezia's hand. "As if I could begrudge you anything."

A woman used to being adored--and fully aware of its pitfalls--Lucrezia closes her eyes.

 

~

 

Cesare would name their daughter Lucrezia, but that name has already been taken by one of his bastards, and so he settles for Louisa.

 

Louisa looks just like her father, and when he leaves to visit Lucrezia, Charlotte gives her to a wet nurse because of that. She can’t bear to look at the child for too long, and realizes why when she receives word that Cesare has killed Alfonso d’Aragona.

 

”You broke your sister’s heart,” she comments when he returns home. “I didn’t think you capable of that.”

Could he break mine? When Charlotte stands over Louisa’s cradle, caresses her olive skin and tries to love her, she thinks that he might. But it’s less Cesare she craves and more the enigma of him; she knows herself well enough to admit that much. She wants Valentino more than the man; he prefers the wife to the woman. They have an easy rhythmn that way. The only woman he wants entirely is Lucrezia, and he may never have all of her, just as she’ll never have all of him.

Certainly not now. Charlotte holds the baby now, toys with her lacy dress and stares at her husband. They can’t play at childish lovers’ games now. 

 

“She’ll recover,” Cesare says, elbow propped up on his chair. He arches an eyebrow at the baby; she smacks her hands together in response. He’s seen the other daughter, the one called Lucrezia. And he’s seen one of his sons, too—Girolamo.

 

“Like Savonarola,” he commented upon mentioning the boy. And he laughed then, at his own private joke. As if she doesn’t know how he tortured the heretic. But let him think her innocent. It's better this way.

Louisa resembles more Lucrezia’s bastard, Giovanni. They share dimpled cheeks and dark skin, hair that curls into their eyes. Charlotte’s met the little boy, a boy who thinks of the pope as his father and Lucrezia his sister. But he treats Cesare as a parent, hugging him impulsively and rocking back on his heels and offering a dutiful greeting.

 

How will Louisa treat her father? She sees him even less often than Charlotte.  
Cesare beckons a hand, stretches his arms. He holds the baby even more awkwardly than she does. His gaze flickers from her head to her toes, and he nods in approval.

 

“Is is true—what they say you said?” Her husband’s remarks are already lost to history; he is followed by faithful scribes who quote and misquote him. Some make more of him than he is—others resolve to destroy his name. It’s all much of the same where the Borgias are concerned. “You take no account of women? Not even the Tigress of Forli?”

 

Caterina Sforza has no doubt suffered at Il Valentino’s hands. How could she not? Charlotte bears her no sympathy.

 

“You’re cleverer than they told me you would be.” He shrugs, hands her the baby. “You needn’t ask after the exception.”

 

~

 

It baffles people, how he could be so terrible—bloodthirsty, coarse, narcisstic—yet so… not gentle, but controlled. At her mercy. He goes to Nepi, and returns with his sister, a feat in itself.

 

They are no longer children when they tread Charlotte’s floors. She, dressed in black, holds her head high and does not look him in the eye. He, for once, wears a matching color and doesn’t need that look. He must know that she’s here, that that in itself promises more devotion than any glance.

 

But Cesare always wants all of Lucrezia. It’s just like, Charlotte imagines, he wants all of the Romagna, all of Italy. He could not settle for being a prince of the Church. That was limited. He wanted everything.

 

She feels the mistress when Lucrezia sleeps in the next room. When he comes to her at night, angry and harsh and cold, she closes her eyes and tries not to enjoy it. For Charlotte, despite herself, does feel sympathy for the broken Borgia woman, her hollow cheeks and the child she’ll soon give up.

 

He holds dances to keep up appearances—and to keep his eye on the condottiere. He’ll sit back in his chair—more of a throne, really—legs splayed lazily, lips always twisted. Charlotte will rest on his right side, smiling serenely. She doesn’t dance much, preferring to play the part of the proud, snobbish wife. Better they fear than love her.

 

She’ll listen to her ladies gossip, picking up information that she might better arm herself with. She always knows who Cesare sleeps with, when his sister isn’t in question. But really, his mistresses don’t bother her as much as they should. It’s not as if he bears them any attachment.

 

Lucrezia sits at his right hand, out of mourning and searching for a new husband. (Well, Cesare and the pope search. She waits, and pulls strings where they can’t see.) She’s thinner now, this Lucrezia Borgia, and deceptively frail-looking. She won’t look at her brother any more than he looks at her, yet their hands inevitably find one another, fingers entwining absentmindedly.

 

Charlotte, cheeks still rounded from the baby, regal and flat-eyed, watches all who watch them. She smiles—beams—as Cesare takes her hand, kisses her cheek for all to see. All the while, at his other side sits Lucrezia, fingers still laced.

 

“I think I shall dance now,” she says, in the midst of the wine and the dancing and the dimly lit acts. When Cesare begins to rise, she bats him away. “Stay with your wife, my love. You have your responsibilities at home, too. It’s not all battles and blood and glory.”

 

He knows that, but says nothing.

 

If the pope had been there, he would have stopped here. Cesare, on any other night, would, his hands settling over her shoulders, running down her waist, his lips at her ear. When she closes her eyes, Charlotte sometimes imagines them together like that. The delicate struggle for power, the sweet viciousness in their shared blood.

 

Tonight, he watches Lucrezia dance, her arms in the air, her hair flying loose. Charlotte rests her hand atop his, though she doubts he even feels it. 

 

They both watch Lucrezia—everyone watches Lucrezia—and Charlotte falls a little more under her thrall. Everyone does; everyone but Cesare. He can't fall prey to his own self.

 

~

 

He’s killing and fighting on the other side of the country, and Lucrezia is drinking.

“Do you ever worry about him dying?” She asks, running a finger around the rim of her goblet. She narrows her eyes, as he so often does. “Do you ever want him to?”

 

Charlotte isn’t sure why she adores Lucrezia—worships her, really—as she does. Her moods swing, from charming to childish to pitying. And sometimes, she’ll be terribly bitter. But Charlotte can’t look away, can’t help but lean in to listen to her every word.

 

It’s such a beautiful, horrid balance—being Lucrezia Borgia. And yet he still listens to her, responds to her letters, takes her advice. All she has to do is dance.

“Papa’s always been a bit of an idiot,” Lucrezia comments, on another tangent entirely. She reclines in her chair, hair loose and spilling over her bound breasts. “And I believed in him, as any daughter does. But the older I became, the more I realized Cezza hated him. And if Cezza hates someone… Well, I do, don’t I?” She lowers her eyes, more contemplative than sad. “It never ends well when we disagree.

 

“Even I could see that he wasn’t suited for that… that stupid cardinal’s hat.” She shrugs. “He’s never believed in God, or Jesus, or any of the saints.” At Charlotte’s slight flinch, she adds, “Oh, you know that. Don’t look so shocked. You’re around me; you don’t have to act the loving wife of someone you don’t really understand.”

 

She reaches out, snatches Charlotte’s chin between her fingers. Lucrezia isn’t quite drunk—years of drinking with her father has given her an iron stomach—and isn’t quite sober. Her fingernails are sharp, as if they’ve been filed.

 

“It’s an odd thing, isn’t it?” She smirks, Cesare in perfect likeness. “The three of us. I can’t find it in me to be jealous of you—and you can’t envy me. Because I’m just so terribly tragic.” She kisses Charlotte’s cheek, running a finger down her throat as she does Cesare. “You have nothing to fear from him. He isn’t overly interested in you. Cezza doesn’t love much of anything, but he does make himself rather fascinated and distressed over certain people.” She pats Charlotte’s hair. “You’re not one of them. Be grateful for that.”

 

~

 

After Lucrezia marries, it’s a long time before any of them see each other again.

Charlotte becomes accustomed to this sort of makeshift widowhood, receiving a letter every once in a while. Louisa grows dark and slender, more like him every day. She has a serious countenance, a tendency towards daily silence until at last there’s an outburst. When strangers near, however, she is as charming as a child can be, wooing them with babbling intelligence.

 

Lucrezia writes, too. She sanitizes her story, as she should, not mentioning her new lovers or a certain Isabella d’Este. She is not my sister, dear heart, she’ll write. You are.

 

And Charlotte wishes she could believe her.

 

Cesare sees his sister more often than his wife, though that makes sense. When Lucrezia loses another baby and falls deathly ill, Charlotte turns to prayer for the first time in years. Cesare has no time for God. As usual, he trusts only himself—to be right there, to see her, to touch her.

 

Sometimes Charlotte wonders what would happen if Lucrezia died first. 

 

He wouldn’t abandon what he is, for he loves the blood almost as much as he loves her. But would he be able to go on? Go on as well as he does? She isn’t sure. Losing Lucrezia would be like losing a limb, or maybe more. Yet, the carnage, too, is him.

 

They’re all together one last time years later, when Lucrezia and Cesare visit Charlotte’s estate. (His, too, yes, but that is a technicality, isn’t it?)

She walks into the dining hall to find Lucrezia—full again, beautiful, more the Duchess of Ferrarra than she ever was Bisceglie—in her brother’s lap, hands in his hair as she kisses him lightly, fully on the lips. His arm curls around her waist, draws her close for a second too long. And when they turn ‘round and find Charlotte, neither one startles or moves.

 

Nor does she. She dances, too.

 

“There will be a masquerade,” Lucrezia announces grandly, her fingers still tangled in Cesare’s shaggy, uncut hair. “I shall be Bellona, and Cesare her brother, Mars—you’re a much better Mars than Juan ever was, sweet brother—and whatever shall you be?” She taps her chin. “Who was Mars’s consort, Cezza?”

 

“Bellona,” he says, managing a quiet laugh. Lucrezia giggles; and their moods towards each other always change, always come back to this. “There was another long ago—Nerio, goddess of valor.”

 

Bellona was fiercer than Nerio. More. As much Mars as Mars. But Charlotte smiles, and takes her place on her husband’s other knee, and, with no servants around, kisses him. And she watches as Lucrezia kisses him deeper, washing away all traces that Charlotte was ever there.

 

They dance, the three of them, at this masquerade. Their identities are concealed, though everyone can guess that of Mars. Nerio and Bellona, however, are such obscure goddesses—they expect Valentinois and Ferrarra to dress as Hera and Venus, something like that—that Charlotte and Lucrezia dance shrouded, their faces fully obscured.

 

And they all drink their wine and sit together. Cesare kisses Charlotte’s neck, and for once she feels wanted. Perhaps it’s Lucrezia, whispering in his ear—do something, Cezza. Look at the poor lamb.

 

She’s their poor lamb, to be sure.

 

For a while, it’s as if they’ve always been together, the three of them. It’s as if she may be a part of that bond, that extraordinary, deadly wholeness. It’s funny, because Charlotte’s always imagined Cesare to be the part that ties them tight. But it’s Lucrezia who holds Charlotte’s hand in her left, Cesare’s in her right. It’s Lucrezia that kisses Charlotte’s temple before standing on her toes to receive her brother, lips parting beneath his as she sighs.

 

Charlotte never removes her mask that night. But Cesare breaks Lucrezia’s, tosses it roughly aside. And she, pushing him onto the bed, removes his with all of the graces of a lady.

 

The last thing Charlotte remembers before being pulled in beside them is this:

 

“Do you know,” Lucrezia laughs, her nails biting his shoulders. “How much that mask cost me?”

 

When they wake in her bed, a tangle of limbs and curls and sleek muscle, she finds Lucrezia and Cesare talking amongst themselves, dressing one another like children. She slips into her dressing gown, peeking over her shoulder to spy on them.

 

Lucrezia laces her brother’s shirt, licks her palm to smooth back his hair.

 

“God, this looks terrible.” Her thumb grazes his forehead, scarred from some battle.

He passes a hand over her bare stomach, not so tight after those ruining babies. And he spins her round, laces her corset as he bites her neck. But the ferocity is gone. They’re melancholy now, barely noticing Charlotte as they go on their ways.  
Lucrezia leaves the next day, bidding Charlotte and Louisa goodbye. She hugs the little girl tight, lays her lips on Charlotte’s.

 

“Remember to carry on as you have,” she says, before gliding into Cesare’s arms. “You’ll have to.”

 

Cesare kisses Charlotte goodbye three days later, as he always does. He pulls Louisa close, ascertains their likeness, and grins.

 

“I will see you,” he says.

 

But three months later, the pope is dead and they’re all in ruins.

 

~

 

Louisa is fourteen, and looks just like her father.

 

“My aunt sends word,” she says at her mother’s bedside. “She bids you to rally. I’ve heard she’s a fierce woman, Mother. I would do as she says.”

 

Cesare’s daughter is prone to his sharp tongue. And though it’s been seven years since he died, she has as of late become obsessed with him, collecting whatever Charlotte has left. She studies sketches of him, matches their features. She reads, too, though Charlotte’s been too ill to monitor what.

 

But surely she’s heard.

 

“She’s certainly more beautiful than I am now.” Lucrezia is still Ferrarra, still vital, though her letters have waned since Cesare’s death. Charlotte, who took the news with stoicism and not much feeling, heard that Lucrezia locked herself in her room upon hearing word. It’s only right, she supposes. 

 

It’s odd, then, that while Lucrezia remains lovely, Charlotte is gray before her time, feeble and bone thin. She’s not sure what it is that’s struck her down, but it will all end soon.

 

That’s fine, really. It’s Lucrezia who’s had to go on without her reflection, Lucrezia’s who’s gone through the motions and carried on with a widow’s soul. She’ll suffer more.

 

“You should see her,” Charlotte suggests, folding her withered hands. “Her and your sister, young Lucrezia.”

 

Louisa presses her lips together. “I’d like to.”

 

“Have her tell you about your father. She knows more than I do.”


End file.
